


A Taste of Candy

by Rosie_Dayze



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Sam Wilson is a Gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: Halloween night and the only thing Sam Wilson really wants is to be tasted.





	A Taste of Candy

“Trick-or-Treat.” The chorus is a weary one, and no wonder, it’s closer to ten than not and the unadulterated joy of candy is beginning to wear thin for children and parents alike after three hours of trekking the neighborhood.The children hold their heavy buckets and lumpy pillowcases aloft and you are pleased to see you have just enough treats to appease the last of the nights sugar saturated wanderers.

“Here you go,” you say, handing out the mix of and M&M’s, and for one child whose bag is labeled hypoglycemic, a pumpkin shaped eraser and small jar of play-doh. “Good night!” you say to their trudging backs.

You pull in your arrangement of pumpkins, orange, black, and teal, and hang up the little sign that lets possible stragglers know that you are all out of treats for the night.

“All done?” a deep rich voice calls from the comfortable nest of your couch. “Are you gonna take off that mask now?”

“You don’t like it?” You call, a note of playfulness in your voice.

The deadpan look he gives you says it all. With a dramatic sigh you set the Falcon mask on the countertop and rinse out the treat bowl. Then you rejoin Sam on the couch.

“Despite what some of the gossip columns say, I am not in love with myself.” He stretches his pajama clad legs out, giving you a little more space. He holds up the blanket and you slip back into the cocoon of warmth your bodies offer.

“Sam, sweetheart, love of my life. I have seen you go through your evening skincare regimen. If that’s not self-love, I don’t know what is.”

His hand hesitates over the remote. “Oh really? Is that what you call it.”

“What do you call it?”

“Good hygiene. Which that guy definitely needs.” He gestures to the television. The screen is frozen on a large guy wielding a chainsaw. You wonder if Sam is talking about the blood butchers apron, the flesh mask, or the greasy crop of hair.

“Well, he’s got a face mask on, that’s gotta count for something.”

Sam’s arm slides around you as he tucks his body into the curve of yours. “I do not know how you talked me into this.”

“What? Horror movies on Halloween night? It’s tradition.”

“Maybe for you.”

Curious, you wiggle your body until you are facing him. For a second your mind goes blank as you look into the familiar face of Sam Wilson, aka the Falcon, aka your boyfriend. Handsome doesn’t quite cover the charming line of his lips, or the warmth of his brown eyes, but you’ve heard the word used over and over again in the same gossip columns he has.

“What’s traditional Halloween for you?” you ask.

He pauses and then sighs. “Combat.”

It’s a single word, but it holds a lot of weight, and a lot more than you didn’t think about. Does a veteran who has seen what Sam has, who has done what he has, really get anything out of slasher flicks and co-ed screams? Does it bring up bad memories? Or, maybe worse, does it make him angry that people get entertainment out of the death and gore?

“Hey,” you say gently, “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

He shakes his head and puts his hand on your hip. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours but it is way darker than what’s going on in mine.” The look he gives you is serious, but there is a slight curve to his lips.

“Oh?” you ask.

“Yeah, oh. I wont say that I don’t have some bad memories that came with the uniform, but they are outshone by the good ones. Friends and all that.” He tilts his head, pressing his brow to yours. “Besides, I wouldn’t have met you without it.”

You feel a suffusion of warmth spread through you as the breath of his words runs across your lips.

“Okay,” you say, relenting. “Still, it feels like you aren’t having a lot of fun watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre. What would you rather do?”

“Well, this for one.” His hand slides upwards, moving along your stomach and chest, exploring everything beneath your Falon-themed shirt. His hands are warm, and eager along your skin.

“Oh,” you say, just a little breathlessly. “You could have said as much.”

“I’m saying it now.” His hand strums along your body until you are almost humming with the playful pleasure of it.

“Say it louder,” you urge.

His response is his mouth fusing to yours. The quick, practiced flick of his tongue against your own sends a shock of pleasure straight to your gut. As if he already knows his fingers dart lower and lower, tugging at the clasps of your costume pants. His hand slides over you, exploring, stroking, stoking your pleasure. You gasp, and he swallows it.

“That loud enough for you?” he asks.

“Almost,” you say, breathless and eager. With a push you put him on his back. The motion has your pants fluttering to the ground. He look up at you, his eyes dark and luminous. “I think we need to set some ground rules here.”

“Oh?” he asks, his brow quirking.

“Oh yes,” You spread your knees, and mount his hips. The naked line of your thighs is vivid against the pattern of his pajamas. When your weight settles on his lap you feel the hardness of him pressing against you. “See, I like a man who tells me what he wants. And you didn’t.”

“Should I apologize?” His words are uneven, maybe because you are shifting your weight just enough to tease him.

“You should tell me what you want,” you say, easing yourself back and forth. The long, hard line of him is almost hot through the thin fabric he still wears. “Go ahead, say it. Tell me what you need from me right this moment.”

He makes an embarrassed sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You know what I like.”

You tilt your head, feigning ignorance. “How can I know if you don’t tell me?”

He licks his lips and starts to say something. It’s cut off. An embarrassed smile spreads across his features. “We’ve been dating long enough that you-”

You grip his chin between your fingers. It’s not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough for his words to die on his tongue. “Sam. Say it.”

A shiver runs through him that you can feel. He swallows once, hard. Need mingles with courage in his eyes. “Suck me.”

The two words, honestly spoken, send a thrill through you. Your thumb slides over the fullness of his lower lip. You slip one knee between his thigh and shift your weight, as if preparing to sink down the line of his body.

“What was that?” you say teasingly.

“I...I want you to suck on me.” Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “I want your mouth around my cock. I want to feel your tongue. God, do you even know what your tongue does to me?”

You inch yourself down, pausing to kiss along the long line of his neck. Eagerly he lifts his chin, exposing his flesh.

“Why don’t you tell me?” you tease, breathing the words against him.

As you tug his clothes off, he does.

“I think about it all the time. Your lips, your tongue. The sounds.” His eyes roll back and close and a low, appreciative sound follows. He lifts his hips as you slide what little he wears down. He lays out on the couch, eyes closed and body naked. “God, the way you moan when you do it.”

You place a light kiss to the swollen tip of him, and he shivers. You had always known that he liked oral play, but most guys do. You just never realized that he liked it that much. Aware now, you are hyperfocused on the sounds he makes as you draw your tongue over him. The way his body moves as your mouth settles down the line of him. When his hand lifts to the back of your head you push his wrist back to the couch.

“Let me,” you say, half command.

He lets out a breath, and relaxes against the couch, handing the proverbial reigns to you.

You take your time. You explore him with the tip of your tongue, your lips, easing him into your mouth. He groans as you start to suck, your head bobbing in his lap. There is a certain, secondary pleasure you get from giving him what he craves, and you want to make it last for both of you.

Weakly he calls your name. Sweat glistens on the hard line of his stomach. “Please.”

You redouble your efforts and the moan he gives sends pleasure shooting through your body. You tighten your lips, suck harder. You feel the tell-tale swell of him as he grows close. You pull back, just enough to wrap your hand around the wet line of his shaft. The moment you start to squeeze and stroke, he loses control. With a buck of his hips he spills. His wordless moan echos against the couch.

Your hand idles up and down his shaft until he starts to twitch.

“Sto-stop!” he says, trembling and pulling away. “It’s too much.”

You smirk. “I know.”

With a raise of his brow he grabs you by your arms and rolls you to the pil of blankets the wound up somewhere on the floor. With the late hour he is like a shadow as he slides down your body.

“What are you doing?” you ask, even though you sure you already know.

His hands hook in the elastic around your hips. He tugs them down and sweeps a quick tongue over you. “Returning the favor.”


End file.
